


Breathe

by ElisTyping



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bullying, Fluff and Angst, High School, Lung Cancer, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Slowish updates, also posted on fanfiction net
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 02:40:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13801659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisTyping/pseuds/ElisTyping
Summary: Young Peter, diagnosed with lung cancer at an early age, is going to experience high school for the first time. Or any school, for that matter. Having gay parents, no friends, and a tank of oxygen to lug around, will he be able to get through the year?I'm bad a summaries don't judge me.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first story. I'm kind of a busy person, I don't have an update schedule, but I'll try to update kind of regularly. This story has bullying and gay people in it. If that offends you, please don't read it. Please comment and give feedback, I'm here to become a better writer. Thank you for reading!

I’m not dumb. I know I’m going to die. I mean, everyone dies sooner or later, but I’m sectioned into the sooner category. I’m already way passed due to kick the bucket. I was sentenced to die when I was four. I was born premature and weighed about 4 pounds at birth. My dads had to make hospital visits everyday for a month until they could take me home with them.  
I had to have a machine breathe for me for a long time. When Dad and Pa brought me home, I weighed 6 pounds. They had to keep a close eye on me for a long time. Pa started working from home. Dad’s work was too important to not go to. Pa’s office seconded as a nursery. Half of the room had his desk and sofa, and the other half had my crib, changing table, dresser, and such. He always was a quiet worker.  
When I was four I was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. I was moved to a hospital in southern California, and lived there until I was five. I was undergoing an aggressive chemo treatment for months and months. The cancer in my lungs was only growing. I was too weak to talk, walk, or even get out of bed. I was rapidly losing weight, and I was already too skinny to begin with. The doctors could see that the chemo would kill me before the cancer would, and stopped the treatment. Dad and Pa were told to say their goodbyes. Everyone told me I was going to go to heaven.  
Two weeks later, Pa came into my hospital room with a big teddy bear. I wasn’t in the bed. He ran to the bathroom, but I wasn’t there either. He ran to the nurse’s station but they said I should be in my room. The entire hospital went into a panic. Pa found me 20 minutes later curled up in the corner of the empty cafeteria. I had tear stains all over my face. He ran over and scooped me up into his arms.  
“What’s wrong, Peter? Tell me where it hurts!” He demanded. I looked up at him with big watery eyes.  
“I think I want to come back to life now,” I told him.  
“Peter, I don’t understand” he replied, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.  
“I wanted to go find heaven. I didn’t want to make you and Dad sad anymore, Pa,” I told him. Pa started crying harder and let out a strangled laugh. “I don’t think I like heaven very much. It’s so lonely.”  
“You’re not in heaven, Bud. You’re still alive. You’re okay,” he mumbled the reassurances to me, until my weak body fell asleep. It didn’t take long. He brought me back to my room and the nurses hooked me back up to all of my machines.  
Two weeks later, the doctor look an x-ray of my chest to see how much the cancer had grown. It hadn’t. In four weeks, my cancer hadn’t grown at all. In fact, it got smaller. I was expected to be dead by now, but the cancer, for the moment, was stable. The next week, Dad and Pa took me home with the biggest smiles on their faces.  
I got a nasal cannula and an oxygen tank on wheels, along with lots of pills to take. I was still really weak, but I was alive. Dad took a couple of weeks off of work, as did Pa, and we spent a lot of time together. During this time, was my fifth birthday. Dad and Pa had to help me blow out the candles. It was just the three of us. A family.  
I started homeschooling when I was five. I learned in Pa’s office while he worked. I was working way ahead of schedule, and finished all of my work for the year within half the time I was supposed to. Dad and Pa were so proud of me. They brought me out for ice cream and we laughed more than I could ever remember. For just one night, I wasn’t their kid with lung cancer who could die at any moment, I was just their kid. I was just a normal kid for once.


	2. Chapter one

“Pete!” Dad yelled up the stairs. “Breakfast!” Every morning at six a.m., he hollers the same thing up the stairs. Pa always makes different things on different days of the weeks. Mondays are pancakes and scrambled eggs. Tuesdays are mixed fruit and donuts. Wednesdays are smoothies and pancakes. Thursdays are hashbrowns and bacon. Fridays are scrambled eggs and toast. On the weekends, they let me eat my cereal.  
“Coming, Dad!” I yell for him as I jump out of bed. I jog down the staircase and into the living room. The smell of pancakes hits my face like a train. I’m only a little out of breath from the jog. I walk into the kitchen to see Pa is just finishing plating breakfast and Dad has just poured his coffee.  
“Pete,” Dad says sternly when he looks up to greet me.  
“Uh… Good morning, Dad,” I reply.  
“Go get it,” he points his finger toward the stairs. “Now,” he adds with an arched eyebrow.  
“I’m fine right now, Dad! Really! I jogged down the stairs and everything! Look, breathing totally fine! I only slept without it last night because I felt so great!” To emphasize my point, I take a huge breath in and release it with no problems.  
“Please go get your oxygen tank, Peter. You know you’ll regret it later if you don’t,” Pa pleads with me. He worries too much.  
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be right back,” I tell them as I turn back to the living room.  
Before I can even plant one foot on the stairs, Pa yells after me, “No running!”  
***  
“Are you sure you want to do this, Pete? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m totally fine continuing the homeschooling, Bud. I could use the freshening up,” Pa tells me with a faint chuckle.  
“Yeah. I can do it. I’m excited! I want to go to school. I’ll be okay, I promise,” I reassure them both. Dad gives me a skeptical look behind the thick, black frames of his glasses.  
“It’s not that I don’t trust you to take care of yourself, Peter, I just don’t trust literally anyone else there. Have you heard the stories about school nurses lately? Ridiculous,” Dad mutters into his coffee cup, shaking his head.  
Today is my first day of school. Ever. I’ve always been homeschooled so Dad and Pa could keep an eye on me and make sure I was okay. Make sure I wasn’t dying. I was supposed to go to real school last year, but I ended up in the hospital a week before the first day, so Dad declared that I could wait until next year. They always worry about me so much. I love them, I really do, but I’m not five anymore. I’m not the little kid that didn’t know what death was anymore.  
“Really, guys, I want to go. I know when to take my meds and my oxygen tank just got refilled. It’ll be fine,” I tell them around a mouthful of pancake. They both look at me and start laughing. Soon enough I join them, spitting some pancake out onto the table. When we’re done eating Pa brings the dishes to Dad at the sink to wash.  
“Go get ready and when you come down I’ll bring you to school,” Dad tells me while scrubbing at a pan.  
“Okay, Dad.”  
“Dress nice!” Pa calls after me as I go up the stairs.  
After a shower, I put my nasal cannula down the back of my black Apple sweater. Dad has worked for Apple since as long as I can remember. I combine it with a pair of dark grey skinny jeans. The left knee is ripped open. Dad took me shopping for clothes two weeks ago, and let me get clothes that, “all the cool kids wear, Peter!”  
“Did you fall already, Pete?” Pa asks me with a big smile when I get down the stairs. Dad comes up behind him, wraps his arm around his waist, and plants a kiss on his cheek.  
“It’s called fashion, Noah,” Dad tells him with a light-hearted laugh.  
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t know, now would I, Tony?” Pa retorts, turning to face him. Dad smiles widely and kisses him.  
“Nope,” he mumbles against his lips.  
“I’m still hear guys,” I speak up from next to the door.  
“Ready to go, bud?” Dad asks, after laying one more kiss on Pa’s cheek. I nod in response. “Meds?” Nod. “Pencils?” Nod. “Notebooks?” Nod. “Locker number and combination, go!” He says quickly and points at me.  
“Number forty-two. Fifty-eight, nine, twenty-six,” I recite back to him with an eye roll.  
“And what about lunch?” Pa pipes up from beside Dad, and holds up a paper bag. “Half of a turkey sandwich, an apple, and blended veggies.” He tells me proudly. Pa loves to cook and loves feeding people.  
“Thanks, Pa. I love you,” I mumble into his broad chest when he pulls me into a hug. His big arms easily covering most of my slender upper body.  
“I love you too, Peter,” he whispers into my hair.  
“Okay, you saps, let’s get a move on. Wouldn’t want Pete to be late for his first day of school, now would we?” He sings, skipping to the car. I sling my backpack onto my shoulder and walk after him, rolling my tank behind me. I put my bag in the back seat, and hop into the passenger seat.  
***  
I heard Dad’s car pull away from the curb, but couldn’t take my eyes off of the huge building in front of me. I asked Dad to drop me off at 7:30 so I could have time to get situated, and so he could get to work on time. There are a few kids sitting in front of the school sitting in the grass with textbooks, on their phones, or talking to friends. As I walk past them, toward the front doors of the school, they all look at me. The ones next to people turn to whisper to them and the other people just stare at me until I get to the door.  
The air inside the school is much colder than the air outside. I pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands and walk toward the office. The halls smell of cleaning products and sweat. It makes me cough a little as I continue walking. The teachers that I pass smile at me. I can feel the sympathy basically pouring out of them. I round the corner and find my way to the office.  
“H-Hello, my name is Peter. Can I have a campus map please?” I ask, trying to ignore the slight stutter at the beginning. The lady behind the glass looks up from her computer, slides her chair a little to the right, and grabs a piece of paper.  
“Here,” she snaps, sliding the map through the slot at the bottom of the glass. Her eyes return to her computer as soon as the paper makes its way into my hand.  
“Thank you,” I try to sound sincere. I hesitate for a second, waiting for a response, before turning and walking away. “Oh, you’re so welcome, Peter, have a good first day of school,” I mumble to myself as I stroll down the hallway to the science wing. Great start so far.  
My locker is at the end of the science wing. I get it open on the second try and put in my lunch and text books that I need after biology. I can pick them up after. The rest go in my backpack. It’s not too heavy, nothing I can’t handle. I turn around to head to my first period, history class, and slam into what feels like a really warm wall.  
“What the f-” They mutter.  
“Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to-” I start stammering, looking up at them. The guy is huge. At least six feet tall, towering over my 5’8”. He’s muscular, and wearing a letterman jacket.  
“You okay, Kid?” He asks me. I realize I’ve been staring at him for far too long and quickly look away. I direct my gaze to the wall.  
“I’m, uh, I’m sorry,” I tell him, not looking at him. I move my hand and tuck my cannula behind my ear a little more. His eyes narrow and one eyebrow raises.  
“What’s that for?” He points at my face. My eyes widen, and I can feel my face getting warmer.  
“Breathing,” I respond quickly out of habit. He chuckles a little. “I have a name, you know,” I say under my breath, finally looking at him.  
“I don’t know, actually,” he chuckles as he talks. “I would like to though. I’m Will,” he holds out his hand for me to shake. I reach up to grab it, and his hand entirely engulfs mine. “Holy shit, Kid. Your hands are cold as fuck!” He exclaims, quickly dropping it.  
“Sorry, bad circulation,” I reply, tucking my hand into my sweater pocket. The other stays out to hold onto my oxygen tank. “I’m Peter.”  
“Well, Peter, why haven’t I seen you before?” He asks me. Leaning against the row of lockers.  
“Today is my first day. I’ve never been to school before,” I admit, looking down again.  
“Like, ever?” He asks, skeptically. I nod and he gives me a strange look I can’t quite connect an emotion to. “Well, then I shall do everything in my power to make this the best school year for you that anyone has ever had,” he informs me with a huge grin on his face. He leans over and takes my schedule out of a pocket on my oxygen tank case. “Let’s see, history, ew boring. Pre calc second period, hah, fuck that. Hey! We both have art for third period!” He tell me with his stupid grin again.  
“You like art?” I ask, surprised.  
“I know right, don’t look it, do I? You’ll see soon, Kid,” he laughs. I’m surprised he doesn’t look offended. “I’ve got to get to algebra, but I suppose I’ll see you for art, huh?” He winks at me before continuing walking down the hall.  
I turn to watch him go and say, “Bye!” a little louder than my normal speaking voice. He turns around and starts walking backwards, grinning like an idiot.  
“Have a good first period, Kid!” He shouts back, a little too loud. He turns back around and starts walking. He leaves me standing in the middle of the hallways, only a little more out of breath than usually. I turn and start making my way to history class.  
***  
“Peter, would you like to come introduce yourself to the class?” Mr. Patrickson asks me after all the other students are seated. The history class is rather small, but seems even smaller with maps scattering every wall and a cluttered desk in the back. Mr. Patrickson gives me an expectant look from the stool at the front of the room. I get up and make my way up next to him and turn to face the class. All eyes are on me, but none on my eyes. Everyone is looking just below my nose. At the tubes that make me different from them. I take a deep breathe.  
“Hi, I’m Peter,” I blurt quickly. No one says anything.  
After a moment of silence, Mr. Patrickson drones, “And class, what do we say to Peter?” He motions for the class to talk.  
“Hi, Peter,” almost everyone in the class says in a flat voice. Some kids don’t even say it. Everyone just looks bored. Mr. Patrickson seems to deem this good enough and smiles.  
“Thank you, Peter. You can take your seat,” he motions for me to go back to my desk. As I walk to my desk, closest to the door, the wheel of my oxygen catches on the strap on someone's backpack and I stumble. I catch myself on the edge of my desk, and turn around to untangle their strap.  
“Dude, that’s my bag!” Some guy with a fohawk dumbly points out. His hands are out and he’s giving me a look like I just ran him over instead of his backpack.  
“I’m sorry. Let me just-” I lean down to fix it, “There,” I turn and walk to my desk again. He continues to glare at me.  
Mr. Patrickson starts talking about our plan for the year and hands out a syllabus. As he starts to read the words on the page that I’ve now already read, I get out a pen and start doodling on the empty spaces. He continues talking for the rest of class. Two girls in the back of the class are asleep, and Fohawk is snoring quietly. Mr. Patrickson doesn’t notice and continues to animatedly talk in front of the class about due dates.  
Pre calc goes about the same. I went in front of the class and told the class my name and sat back down. Thankfully, nothing happened to make anyone mad on the way back this time. Again, the teacher, Miss Parker, hands out a syllabus and talks for almost the entire class. She repeats everything word for word on the two page syllabus, and then goes into even more detail about every bullet point. Her voice is very relaxing, and she has a calm demeanor. At the end of class she wishes us a good day and stands at the door and smiles at every single person. I like her.  
It takes me longer than the three minute passing time to get to art. I had to stop at the bathroom, and the art room is all the way across the school from the the pre calc room. I walk a little faster for the last few feet, and feel a dull ache in my chest. When I walk into the room, everyone looks up. Everyone is sitting on stools in the large room. There’s art all over the wall and the entire room is really bright. The teacher turns to greet me.  
“You must be Peter! It’s so good to meet you! Have a seat, have a seat!” She babbles in an extremely peppy voice and gently pushes me toward the rest of the class. I finally direct my attention to the other kids and see Will. His knees are bouncing and he’s staring right at me. My face gets hot again. He pats the open stool next to him. I walk over and focus on not falling. I sit on the stool and finally look up at him. He smiles at me.  
“Hey, Kid,” he says, looking down at me.  
“H-Hi. You don’t have to keep calling me that. You know my name,” I remind him. He chuckles.  
“Boys. Listen, please! Thank you!” The teacher I have yet to learn the name of reprimands us. We both snap our heads up toward the front and listen to her talk. “Now, I know you all are probably sick of teachers talking. For all of this week, we’re going to be painting. You can grab your eisles from the far wall, canvases from the front desk, and paint from the back counter by the sink. Brushes are up here by me! Paint whatever you want!” She sings. Everyone gets up and goes to get their things.  
“You sit,” Will puts a warm hand on my shoulder. “I’ll get it for both of us.”  
“I can get it,” I try to get up again. He pushes my down lightly and gives me a stern look.  
“You can get it tomorrow, if you’re really worried about it,” he reassures me. He walk off to get two eisles and sets them in front of both of our stools. He sets my eisle closer to his stool than my stool is, forcing me to slide over slightly. He walks over and does the same with the canvases. “Color?” He asks. It takes me a couple of seconds to respond.  
“Blue and white, please,” I decided. He nods and walks away toward the paint. I watch him grab two paint dishes and an arm full of colors, including blue and white, then grabs two paint brushes.  
“Here you are, Sir,” He bows and presents the paint to me. A laugh forces its way out from deep in my chest. I can see him smiling, even though his head is still down.  
“That’s a step up from ‘Kid,’” I chuckle. He sits and starts pouring his paint onto his dish. I do the same.  
“You don’t really mind, though, do you?” He asks, his smile slips the tiniest bit. Someone who wasn’t staring at his face so much wouldn’t have even noticed.  
“Not really, but I’m not a kid. We’re in the same grade,” I remind him. His smile comes back.  
“When you first bumped into me, I thought you were a freshman. But as it turns out, we are both, indeed, juniors. You’re just so small,” he teases, leaning over to bump his shoulder against mine. We both laugh a little, and I almost fall off of my stool. His hand wraps around my arm tightly, tugs me back toward him just a little too hard, and my shoulder bumps into his. I quickly correct myself, face getting warm again. “Good?” He asks.  
“Yeah. I’m good,” I mumble as I adjust my cannula again. “We should start painting,” I tell him, pouring paint onto my dish. I mix blue and white of various proportions do make different shades of blue. I start adding the darker blues at the bottom. Will is painting a very pale pink circle in the middle of his canvas.  
“What are you painting?” He asks me, not taking his eyes off of his work.  
“I don’t know,” I respond. Keeping my eyes glued to where my brush is leaving strokes of blues.  
“Do you like abstract art more than realistic art?” He replies, looking at my canvas, and taking his brush off of his.  
“Yes,” I respond. After a few seconds of silence, I look up and meet his eyes. He’s looking down at me with the same look as this morning. I don’t know what he’s thinking. “I like making new things, rather than recreating old ones. It’s better than real life,” I explain, hoping he’ll stop staring at me soon. It makes me anxious when people stare at me without saying anything.  
“Okay,” he replies with a shrug. He turns back and starts painting again. I can tell now that he’s planning on painting a person.  
“That’s it?” I demand just little too loudly. The teacher looks up from her desk.  
“What? I asked you a question and you answered. It seemed like it was making you sad. Why would I keep asking? If you wanted to tell me more, you would. By the way, You’re worrying Ms. Patterson,” he shrugs, only taking his brush off of his canvas for a second, before resuming plastering brown paint above the person’s head.  
“That’s what people usually do,” I tell him.  
“Well, everyone knows that people are dumb,” he says through a smile. “Anyway, tell me about yourself, Peter.”  
***  
During art, I learned that Will is actually very smart, despite his jock persona that he’s got going on. He asked about my childhood, and didn’t even give me a second glance when I mention that I have two dads. He listened to my entire sob story without interrupting. When I was done I was informed that it was now his turn and that I was about to, “learn a thing or two.”  
Will really likes dogs. He has three. He hates cats. His favorite color used to be green, but now it’s blue. When I asked why, he simply asked if he could buy my painting from me when I’m done. I said he could just have it. We bickered for a little bit before he returned to telling me about himself. He has a little sister named Mary, she’s four and she loves to ride on Will’s shoulders. Even though he told me little things about his life, instead of his story, it seemed like the things that he shared were more important.  
After art, I had creative writing, then English. We got syllabuses for both of the class. Mr. Johnson, the creative writing teacher, asked me if I was feeling okay at least three times. I had to assure him that I was fine, while the other students gave me strange looks. Some of them snickered when they thought I wasn’t looking. The English teacher, Mr. Hansen, challenged me to a breath holding contest. The whole class laughed, and I gave a weak chuckle, telling him that he would win. He seemed satisfied and started the class.  
Fohawk was in my English class. When Mr. Hansen took attendance, I found out that his name is Eugene. I couldn’t help the tiny chuckle that left my mouth. Eugene was a far less intimidating name. He looked pissed. He glared at me for the rest of class. I doodled on my syllabus and tried to ignore him. When the lunch bell rang, I was the first out the door.  
Now I stand in the cafeteria looking for somewhere to sit. There are clear groups. Just like in the movies. The goths, with black clothes and all. The jocks, Eugene is there, stuffing a burrito in his mouth. There are a few other groups. I can’t quite name them yet because they all wear relatively normal clothes. I suspect the kids in the back with their textbooks are the nerd, though.  
Clutching my brown paper lunch bag, I move to continue into the cafeteria. I see a few kids that I recognize from class, but no one I would want to sit with. There is an empty table in toward the back of the room, so I opt for that. I sit down, pop my meds, and open the bag. I take out the sandwich, apple, and smoothie and set them down on the table. My appetite isn’t really there anymore, but Dad and Pa will surely ask if I’ve eaten. I don't like lying to them. They can always tell. I’m about to take a bite of my turkey sandwich when someone sits down on the bench on the other side of the table.  
“Whatcha got there, Wheezy?” Eugene asks me, putting his head on this folded hands, and putting his elbow on the table.  
“Food, Eugene,” I reply dryly.  
“Don’t call me that,” he threatens.  
“Thought it was your name,” I say. I still haven’t look at him.  
“The name is Arrow,” he tells me, grinning. I struggle not to laugh. He looks up behind me somewhere and stop smiling.  
“Well, Arrow, you’re in my spot,” a familiar voice pipes up from behind me. I spin around in my seat and see Will standing with his arms crossed.  
“Whatever. He’s no fun anyway,” Eugene grumbles, getting up and walking back to the table of rowdy guys I saw upon entering the cafeteria. The amount of testosterone is almost palpable. Will walks around the table and replaces Eugene.  
“You okay?” He asks. The smile that usually resides on his face is no longer there. His green eyes looking back and forth between mine. I nod and take a bite from my sandwich. “You sure?” He asks again.  
“I’m fine,” I reply, finally tearing my eyes away from his gaze. Will nods.  
“I’m gonna go get in line for lunch. You can come with me if you want,” he offers. Standing in a crowded area of kids doesn't sound like the best idea for me right now.  
“I think I’ll stay here,” I answer. Then ask, “Are you coming back?” He cocks his head and his eyebrows scrunch closer together.  
“Why wouldn’t I?” And with that, he’s off. He gets in the back of the line and grabs a tray. I turn back around and pick up my halved sandwich again. Just as I finish, he sets his tray on the table. It’s overflowing with food. There are three burritos, at least two handfuls of fries, tons of carrots, and two chocolate milks. He notices me looking at his tray and smiles.  
“The lunch ladies like me,” he shrugs. He sits down and starts on his first burrito. By the time I finish my apple, he’s already plowed through two burritos and one carton of milk. It’s grossly fascinating to watch someone eat so much. I’ve never eaten that much in my life.  
“How?” I ask him. He looks up from his fries that he’s just started eating and smiles again. Thankfully there’s no more food in his mouth.  
“How what, Kid?” He asks, popping a fry in his mouth.  
“How are you even eating that much? Where does it go?” I ask him, shaking my head.  
“My stomach, Peter. I thought you were supposed to be smart,” he shakes his head at me, pretending to be disappointed, but his laugh gives it away.  
“And I thought you were supposed to be a bully jock,” I retort, raising one eyebrow.  
“I’m not?” He asks, putting a hand on his chest in mock offense. I shake my head and he asks, “Then what am I?”  
“Nice,” I answer immediately. He looks taken aback for a few seconds so I continue, “And funny, and genuine, and endearing, and sweet, and a good big brother, and a good friend,” I blurt out quickly, falling over my words. When he doesn’t answer I continue the stream of words coming out of my mouth without thinking. “I mean… We are friends right? You saved me a seat in art and told off Eugene and then you were just acting like a friend would. It’s okay if you don’t want to be my friend, I would understand,” in the middle of my word vomit, I look down at my smoothie.  
“Woah. Calm down there, Kid. I really, really want to be friends with you! I do, I really do,” he reaches over and grabs one of my hands, “You don’t have to worry about anything like that, I promise,” as soon as his hand touched mine, my head snapped up to look at them. “Sorry,” he mutters, retracting his hand. Before it can get more than half way across the table, I grab it again.  
“It’s...fine,” I reply. And that’s how we spend our lunch, sitting, talking, eating, and holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please give feedback! I'm here to get better at writing.


	3. Chapter Two

“Hey! How was school?” Dad greets me when I get into the car after school. The rest of the day was full of syllabuses and teachers talking about how the rest of the year will go.  
“It was great,” I answer with the most sincere smile I’ve felt on my face for a while.  
“Yeah?” He asks, pulling away from the curb. I nod. “That’s so great, Buddy. Noah will be so glad. He was texting me all day asking if I thought you were doing okay,” he informs me with a chuckle. Dad always look so happy when talking about Pa. “Make any new friends?” He asks, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.  
“Yeah. Yeah I did,” my smile widens a little and so does Dad’s.  
“Really? What’s their name? What’re their parent’s names? Do they have a job? What grade are they in?” He asks rapidly. I hold my hands up and motion him to stop.  
“Woah, woah, woah! Simmer down, Dad,” I instruct him. He sighs and visibly relaxes in his seat. “His name is Will. I don’t know his parent’s names, but he has a little sister named Mary. I think he said he works at the coffee shop on 3rd. He’s a junior like me,” I fire off, almost as fast as he did.   
He looks taken aback for a second before asking, “How many classes do you and this Will have together?”  
“Just one. We have art together. But we did sit together during lunch,” I tell him, taking out my phone and opening my contacts.  
“And you learned all that in just one class and lunch?” Dad asks.  
“Yup,” I answer shortly. Dad hums and seems content with all of my answers. I look through my contacts, not that there are many, and find the new one that Will added. He asked for my phone right before lunch ended and told me to text him. I readily agreed. I open a new iMessage and shoot off a text, "Hey."   
A minute later Will’s reply comes through, "Peter, right?"   
I respond a second later, "Give your number to many other guys today?"  
A couple minutes later he replies, "Tons."   
I laugh a little and Dad looks over to me and asks, “Is that Noah?”  
“No, it’s Will,” I tell him, typing out my reply to him.  
“And this Will is just a… Friend, right?” He asks. I look up from my phone and scoff at him.  
“We met literally not even ten hours ago,” I remind him. He hums again, and puts all of his focus on the road. I continue to text Will for the whole ride home.  
***  
As soon as I walk through the door of the house, I’m trapped in the biggest hug I’ve had in a long time.   
“I missed you, Peter! How was school?” Pa asks me, pushing me out to arms length, looking me up and down, and pulling me back for another hug.  
“I would tell you if I could breathe,” I chuckle into his chest. He immediately pulls back and looks worried for a second. He realizes I’m joking, and starts to smile again. He motions for me to go on. “It was great. We didn’t do much today, though,” I shrug. It’s really not a big deal.  
“And?” Dad speaks up from where he’s leaned against the doorway. I turn around and look at him. “Aren’t you gonna tell your father about your new friend?” He asks. I turn back around and look at Pa. His eyebrows are basically in his hairline and almost all of his teeth are showing.  
“I made a friend,” I state simply, walking past Pa to go to further into the living room and through to the kitchen. I get all the way to the island counter in the middle before Pa and Dad are right behind me.  
“Woah, woah. I need details!” Pa exclaims. I can already feel the headache coming on.  
“His name is Will and he’s a junior, too. His favorite color is blue and he works at a coffee shop,” I relay some of what I told to Dad on the ride here. My head's pounding.  
“Is he nice?” Pa asks.  
“Yes,” I tell him. I open my backpack, take out my book, and plop down in the stool to start reading. I read approximately three pages before Dad sits in the stool right beside me.  
“Feeling okay?” He asks, pretending to be preoccupied with his phone.  
“Fine,” I reply, continuing to read. The pages start to blur in and out of focus as my head beats against my skull.  
“Did… Did something happen at school?” He asks, still not taking his eyes off of his phone.  
“No,” I snap back at him, getting off of the stool and setting my book on the counter. Pa is looking at us from the doorway.  
“I think I’m going to go take a nap,” I tell them. Dad’s eyes snap up from his phone to look at me and Pa takes a step forward.  
“Are you okay?” Pa asks, then continues, “You didn’t strain yourself too much at school, did you?”  
“No. I’m just tired,” I tell them, already walking past Pa, into the living room to get to the stairs.   
“I’ll wake you up for dinner, Peter. Have a good rest,” Dad says from the kitchen. I don’t reply and walk up the stairs.  
I put my tank beside my bed and get under the covers. I take out my phone for the first time since I got home and see that I have six new notifications. All from Will, and all only minutes apart.  
"Peter? I don’t know if you’re busy or not, but you never answered my question."  
"I never meant to offend you, if I did."  
"I’m sorry."  
"I wouldn’t even care about the answer, Peter."  
"Please answer, Kid."  
"Fuck. I’m sorry."

I never felt my phone buzz after I texted him back the last time. On the way home, we had somehow gotten into a game of truth. Like truth or dare, but without the dare. It started out with the easy stuff, like favorite animals and favorite foods (Will’s are zebras and donuts.) Then it got to the most random shit we could think of. I scroll up to find the message. After I asked if he like penguins, (Who doesn’t, Peter?) he sent the question that he was freaking out about.  
"Are you gay?"  
I’ll respond later, right now, I need to go to sleep.   
I text him a quick, "Ttyl," roll over, and go to sleep.  
***  
Someone is shaking me and whispering my name. My eyes are still closed but I can tell that it’s Dad.  
“Peter,” he whispers for what can’t be the first time. I roll over to face him and grunt, but don’t open my eyes. “Dinner is done,” he tells me rubbing my shoulder now, instead of shaking it.  
I don’t even open my eyes when I mumble, “I’m not hungry,” and roll back over. I’m not lying, I’m not hungry. I usually try to eat something when I’m not hungry so they don’t worry, but I can’t be bothered.  
“You’ve been sleeping for a few hours, Bud. Maybe you should come and at least sit with us for dinner. If you keep sleeping you won’t be able to sleep later tonight,” he suggests. At least, it sounds like a suggestion, but it’s really a demand. I could, of course, say no. But if I do, I’ll have two worried dads on my ass.  
“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” I respond after a few seconds, finally opening my eyes. He pats my shoulder and leaves to go downstairs. Instead of getting up right away, I reach over and grab my phone off of the night stand.   
There is only one reply from Will, "Okay."  
Okay. Maybe he’s mad at me for not answering.   
I text him back and say, "I've never really thought about it, and I don’t know."   
He responds surprisingly fast. "You don’t know what?"   
I respond, "The answer to your question. Never really thought about it," and get out of bed. I don’t even look in the mirror before I head downstairs.  
“Hey, Pete!” Pa greets me enthusiastically. I manage a weak smile and sit down in my usual spot. “Want any mashed potatoes? Tony told me you weren’t wanting to eat too much, but who doesn’t love mashed potatoes?” He asks me hopefully.  
“Maybe just a little,” I reply, holding my plate up as he scoops a spoonful onto it. “Thanks.” I say. Dad and Pa load up there plates with pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans. They dig in and start talking about how Pa’s office needs to be renovated. I take a few measly bites of my potatoes. My head is propped up by my hand and I twist the spoon around in my food.  
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Dad asks me around a mouthful of green beans.  
I shake my head, push my plate away, and respond, “No. I’m not very hungry,” they both just look at me. “May I be excused please? I want to take a shower.”  
“Yes, Peter, of course,” Pa responds, obviously concerned. “Please come down and take your meds before you go to sleep again, though,” and with that I get up and head up the stairs.  
After I pick out pajamas and take my nasal cannula off, I check my phone. Will still hasn’t answered. He’s probably just busy. I try not to worry too much about it. I really am tired, that wasn’t bullshit. Neither was my loss of appetite. I just feel worn out. It’s probably just because I don’t move as much as I did today on a daily basis. I turn on the hot water and get in the shower. Tomorrow I’ll feel better.  
***  
Buzz… Buzz...Buzz… The vibration sounds and feels like it’s drilling into my brain. I open my eyes and immediately regret it. The bright light hurts...a lot. I reach over to grasp for my phone and retreat under the covers. I finally open my eyes when I’m under the dark canopy of my blanket. I have a lot of notifications. Most from Will, starting at almost two in the morning.  
"Are you awake?"  
"I suspected as much."  
"I remembered you said you just woke up earlier. Hope you’re okay."  
"How am I supposed to finish the painting if I don’t have my model?"  
"I should go to sleep."  
"Goodnight, Peter."  
Me. The person Will was painting in art was me. What? Why? Why was he up at two in the morning? Why did he think I wasn’t okay? What? It’s too early for this. I go back to all my messages and see that I have one from Dad, as well.  
"If you’re not feeling well, you don’t have to go to school."  
I can’t miss the second day of school. Dad and Pa will get worried and make me do homeschooling again. I’ve been through way worse. I just have to get through one day. I’ll pop some ibuprofen and I’ll be good to go. I need to get up and shower, I smell disgusting.  
After a shower I have the joy of trying to figure out what to wear. I really want to wear my other black sweater and grey jeans, but that might seem like I just wore the same clothes for two days. I would wear a long sleeve shirt, but I’ll get cold. I decide on my white Apple hoodie and black skinny jeans. I put on my nasal cannula and slip the tube down the back of my shirt and hoodie. I turn to the mirror and flinch. I look like shit. I have dark circles under my eyes and I look paler than usual. My hair is sticking up in all different directions and looks a little tangled. I run a hand through it to work out all the knots. It looks better, but still not good.  
“Peter,” Dad grimaces as soon as I come into the kitchen. It’s a little after 6:30, they must have wanted to let me sleep more. I blink. “You look terrible. Are you sure you want to go to school today? No one would be upset. All the teachers already know that you can’t be expected to be in perfect health all the time,” he looks concerned. Pa just finished sliding the last of the food onto a third plate. He isn’t looking at me, but his eyebrows are drawn together, and it looks like he’s glaring at the food.  
“I’ll be fine. I just need some ibuprofen. If I start to feel worse during the day I’ll text you or Pa,” I tell them, walking over to the medicine cabinet. It takes a second to find the right bottle. The cabinet is almost overflowing with prescription drugs all labeled, “Andrews, Peter.” Some of them I don’t need anymore, but Pa wanted to keep them around just in case. I get four ibuprofen and walk over to my spot at the table where Pa and Dad have set up for breakfast.  
“How was your sleep?” Pa asks me, pretending not to be worried. I swallow the ibuprofen down, along with the rest of my meds that Dad set at my spot at some point before I came down stairs, with some orange juice.  
“It was fine,” is my simple reply. Pa put more food than usual on my breakfast plate. He always does this when I don’t eat much of dinner the night beforehand. It’s still not the average amount for a normal teenage boy, but it’s a lot for me.  
“Well, you slept in a little late, better hurry and eat so we can get you to school on time. Do you want to be there the same time as yesterday?” Dad asks me, clearly not wanting to be late to work. I nod with a mouthful of donut.  
“Almost done,” I mumble behind the food.  
***  
I can feel Will standing behind my locker door before I see him. He’s leaned against the locker next to mine, looking straight ahead. I finish putting my things away and close my locker. He looks at me and pretends to be shocked.  
“Peter! Wow! What are the chances of us meeting here again?” He exclaims, walking toward history class with me.  
“Pretty high, considering the fact that it’s my locker,” I respond with little to no emotions. There’s a short pause before I ask, “Why were you up at two in the morning?” His smile fades a little.  
“Mary’s sick. Poor thing was up puking all night. I sat in the bathroom with her until she fell asleep and I had to carry her to bed,” I look at him and can see the stress evident on his face. He has dark rings under his eyes almost as dark as mine.  
“You look like shit,” I tell him, bumping his shoulder with my own, only having to push upward a little. He looks down at me and arches an eyebrow.  
“You’re one to talk. I’m surprised you weren’t up at two in the morning, what with those eye bags and the nap you took,” he bumps me back. Before I can respond we’re outside of my history class and the bell is about to ring. “I’ll see you in art,” he tells me, smiling again. He turns away and books it to his first period.  
As I watch him walk down the hall, someone walks past me to get into the classroom, and hits their shoulder against my chest. My back slams into the door frame and the air is knocked out of my lungs. I turn my head to see Eugene just sitting down at his desk. He’s smirking and looking right at me. I struggle to take a breath in before I straighten up and make my way to my desk. Mr. Patrickson walks in just as the bell rings and starts talking about wars while pointing to maps that cover the room.  
Half way through class, I can hear someone whispering my name. It’s obviously Eugene. I ignore him and hope he stops. After realizing that I’m not going to respond he resorts to calling me ‘Wheezy,' but alas, he fails once again. He stops after about five minutes of failure. I go back to taking notes as Mr. Patrickson talks about the Civil War.  
I’m shaken out of my concentration something small hitting my face. It’s wet. I reach up and grab it. It’s a slobbery piece of paper. When I turn my head to look at Eugene, he has a straw and the biggest shit eating grin I’ve ever seen. I drop the ball of paper onto the floor and go back to my notebook. He continues to spit pieces of paper at me. I really want to tell Mr. Patrickson, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself. He’s in the middle of talking, that would be rude.   
After a few minutes of spitballs hitting me and my desk, a bigger piece of paper lands on my notebook. It folded into a small square. I’m tempted to open it right then, but instead tuck it into my bag without looking at Eugene. What does he want with me?   
“Peter, paying attention?” Mr. Patrickson’s voice calls me out of my thoughts. He, along with everyone else, have turned to look at my. I can feel my face getting warmer.  
“Uh, yes, sir,” I manage to choke out. He looks at me for a moment longer, before turning back to his book and continuing to talk. Most of the kids continue to look at me. I go back to taking notes and hope my face isn’t too red.

**Author's Note:**

> Please give feedback in the comments!!!


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